Thursday, September 22, 2011

I would always be partial to November, as it gave me to the
world and mostly vice versa. September
comes a close second, autumn subtly coloring up my life.

I got a new job. I am not ecstatic about it. It’s a
government job (the mere sound of which nearly mars all possibilities of
excitement) at a remote corner of Assam. But it’s preferable to studying at
home the whole day till my exams in January. It’s just the right pace, 5 hours
a day; the puzzle piece that fits into the jigsaw of my exam preparation
and the solitude I seek. The place is so remote it’s like the 1920s. A car passing by on the dusty road becomes
the discussion of the day at the market. The people are laid back and “adda” is the widely
practiced local sport. Only solace is the unsullied green fields, the trees, cottony skies, the dew-laden mornings; and a pristine solitude.

September introduced me to Studio Ghibli movies. My breath often forms
a solid lump of joy in my chest, as I watch and relish idyllic visuals, marvel
at imaginations, and relieve my childhood. I cling to these movies like an oasis
of pure, stark joy. I watch them alone on evenings, in my room, on my bed. 'Grave
of the Fireflies', 'Whisper of the Heart', 'Only Yesterday', 'Arrietty', 'Howl's Movng Castle', 'Kiki's delivery Service', 'Princess
Mononkone', 'My neighbor Tortoro', 'My neighbours-The Yamadas', 'Ponyo' and 'Spirited
Away'. I don’t rush through them, as I usually
do with things that interest me. I am slowly savoring each visual, each word and
each feeling that it arouses in me.

Being jobless for a month and half, had a weird effect on
me. I went on a spending spree knowing fully well my dwindling finances. I added
the color purple to my wardrobe, and made Flipkart.com rich by a dozen books. I
have an upcoming exam and can’t afford to indulge in the luxury of reading a
dozen novels. But I hoard them. My mother has banned nine of these books from
my life till January. Her threat is a real one, a new lock on my library evidence
of her resolution. She doesn’t trust me when it comes to a few things in life, and
reading novels stealthily tops the list. Many a flashlight had been angrily
flung to the floor and sacrificed during my childhood, when my mother discovered
it aiding a new novel to keep me awake beyond 3 am. I am 25, I have few bank accounts,
I can drive, I can finally cross roads during rush hour, I can eat alone in
restaurants, I am a doctor, I can call myself almost an adult; but I dare not defy my
mother’s rules when an exam looms in the near horizon. So, the books are banned. Not
the MCQ books though.

My mother is overall a kind
woman and I’m her first-born; so she let me choose three novels to read during
the three months till January. My mind went into a tizzy, trying to decide
which books to choose from the dozen new ones. I chose “The naïve and the
sentimental novelist” by Orhan Pamuk, “The particular sadness of lemon cake” by
Aimee Bender and “Oxford anthology of Writings from North-east India”. I’ve
started reading the Aimee Bender book. Beautiful writing. I devote pockets of time
throughout the day to it without upsetting my study schedule and most importantly,
my mother. I’ve read only a hundred pages till now. It’s about a nine year old
girl who can taste in food the emotions of the people who cook it. It agitates
her routine life, when she can taste a sad hollowness in her cheerful mother’s
lemon cake. The knowledge of facades people erect lurches her forward from her complacent
childhood. Aimee Bender’s words are brilliant and effortless; conjuring up
images from a nine year old’s perspective. I am looking forward to reading more
of it.

I am a disaster in the kitchen, and so less bothered about
my lack of culinary skills, that I stupidly flaunt it. I had a panic attack
once when I was asked to boil eggs, because the duration of boiling was as unfathomable
to me as the mysteries of life and death. When I was in a hostel, I was a mere
bystander when other girls chopped vegetables, measured oil, marinated with
spices and cooked delicious dishes that I shamelessly ate. My mother shudders
to think what I would cook for my husband after marriage. Maggi noodles and
cornflakes, quips my aunt. Then a month ago I read “Eat, Pray, Love” by
Elizabeth Gilbert. I fell in love with Italy. The food in the book personified
and seduced me. Indian meditation and Balinese life balance intrigued me too.
But Italy won. Not just the country and the language, even the food. I
downloaded apps on my phone to learn Italian verbs, listened to the soundtrack
of ‘La Dolce Vita’, and ate Italian food at restaurants. This phase lasted a
fortnight. It mellowed down after that, but my ‘Italy’ hangover did the
unthinkable. It made me venture into unknown territory within my own home, the
kitchen. I cooked. Pastas, frittatas, and a variety of soups. As I skinned and
seeded tomatoes, and whiffed the herbs in the soup, I FINALLY discovered the “joy”
in cooking. It wasn’t finger-licking good, but after a few mishaps, I can now cook
some decent Pasta. My mother thanked her stars at this small start. ‘All hope
isn’t lost’.

July saw me falling in love, that went unrequited and
September found me making peace with it. It’s Phase 3. After Phase 1 of dazed existence, and Phase 2 of
sleepless nights, constant turbulence of thoughts, and brooding about the same
person every day; this is a cool, refreshing gulp of air. It has cleansed and
calmed me, and has brought back some much needed focus and stability to my life.
Getting a grip on my thoughts had been a topsy-turvy and unpleasant ride, but
time has worked its magic again. Relief.

I also discovered Basho’s Haiku poems in the past month; another
delightful discovery this autumn. It appealed to me like no other poetry ever
did. I watched “Winter Days”, a short anime movie about visuals from Basho’s
haiku poems. I basked in his words. I made a clumsy attempt at writing a few
Haiku poems myself too, which are on this blog here and here.

And to round it all up, there had been a 6.8 earthquake on
Sunday that literally shook the life out of me for the briefest of moments. It
has resulted in a sad loss of life and property in idyllic Sikkim and neighboring
areas; not to mention the emotional trauma, fear and alarm that it has caused in
the whole of India. I will always remember though that at the precise moment
when the ground beneath me shook, I sprouted legs that could run as fast as the
wind. I, who am outpaced by my eight year old cousin on long walks, glided
downstairs from my second floor flat with my hard drive, phone and folder of
school and college certificates in ten seconds flat. I salute my inner runner.

6 comments:

Fascinating read. I have a daughter your age, and another 10 years older. It's interesting to me to see the differences in culture/expectations/relationships. You lead something of a yin/yang life it seems; a physician, a daughter still largely influenced by a parent, and a seeker in the intellect. I hope you don't mind if I follow your journey, at least that you share through your blog. Cheers,Mike